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Worthless
Topic Started: Dec 12 2012, 03:08 AM (45 Views)
Matt Slater
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Godfather
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Worthless
"I should have seen it coming. I should have seen it ... coming..."

Sat cross-legged on the damp grass in winter attire, Slater observes the Vermillion River from the sloped embankment nearby the towering Hilton Hotel in Lafayette, a location where many of ACW's wrestlers and corporate personnel have reserved their accommodations for the next event. The landscape is smothered in frost, glistening with beautiful splendour as the sun exhibits a powerful radiance in the clear sky, though not as strongly as it had been prior to today.

There is no sign of Falcon. There is no sign of anyone else in particular; not even a resident of the habitual premises. Slater is all alone, apparently comfortable with his private serenity and appearing much better after recovering from the savage beating he took at the closure of Initiative [18].

However, the dreary distinction of Slater's voice verifies his morbidity, differentiating from the scenery that offers a prominent glance into the future of the holiday season in terms of weather and climate.

"I should have known, from the moment when Sah'ta Thor didn't show up due to the reports of his emergency after a mysterious explosion, and when Cera made her appearance with Jen instead ... that I was going to be assaulted from behind."

Adjusting his grey woollen hat with his gloved fingers, Slater surveys the humble terrain, his expression stoic despite the obvious anger brewing within.

"I've been in this business for so long to know that my naivety on leaving Pine Bluff unharmed was an inexcusable atrocity. Rational thinking should have dictated that I shouldn't have kept my eyes primarily on Cera. My garnered experiences in this sport should have reminded me that I can't afford to get complacent ... that I can't afford to make a mistake. And from the negation of my surroundings, I made that stupendous mistake."

Picking up a piece of rock, Slater skims it towards the elegant waters of the River, watching it skip a wave before it splashes into the depths and sinks.

"Judas Dathan made an early example out of me. I can't deny or underestimate what he did. He smashed me in the face with his Ultimate Championship belt, and when I was lying on the canvas, half-conscious, he jumped from the top rope and planted his knees on my face with the Krisis Kore."

After failing to properly skim another eroded rock, Slater fully turns towards the camera that has been set up next to his position. The camera thus far has captured most of the river and Slater's central entity, yet it has only seen the left side of his face and back. With Slater's attention now directly aimed at the camera, it is instantly clear to the public that will watch this footage that he has an elevated bruise under his eye, linked to a moderate black eye that has begun to fade away with time.

"This..."

Slater points his finger to his damaged eye.

"...Is what he gave me. This is what he left for me to stare at in the mirror every day, knowing what he had done, knowing ... what he was undoubtedly capable of. I'm not going to sit here and whine and complain about what he did to my face, because I have suffered much worse throughout my illustrious career. But what I will tell you ... is that this mark represents the intensity and loathing that will surface at the climax of ACW's Christmas Special on December 26th. And I know ... I am fully aware ... of what Judas can do to me. But he needs to start realizing ... and strictly contemplating ... what I can do to him in return. I will not be driven away from this industry by him or anyone else, hospitalized or otherwise. I will not be exiled and banished from the sport that I cherish and want to make right again. That is what SIN wants to achieve. Unfortunately, they're not going to culminate my festivities by the year's end."

Growing abundantly irritable, Slater collects a third rock and chucks it further than the previous two, watching it plummet into the water with a heavy splash, leaving a multitude of ripples in its wake.

"I need to prove my worth. That's what Cera said to me in Pine Bluff. She said that I have nothing ... that I am nothing. No family ... no properly loyal friends ... a categorized loner with an inferiority complex. That's what people determine when they analyze my current stature. That's what some people believe I will always be, because I'm not supposed to be a social trend-setter. I'm not supposed to be a popular favourite amongst the public. In their minds, I'm supposed to be bereft of companionship and romance. I'm supposed to be a distant recluse. I'm supposed to be a prominent Silver Knight that abides by his own rules and legislations without having a respectable group to confide in."

Rubbing his eyes with his thumb and index finger, Slater attempts to massage away the morbidity that is starting to bloom.

"Cera knows by this point what kind of individual I am. Obviously she has grown exponentially malicious in recent times, deliriously affecting her perceptions and calculations that she used to maintain so well with intellectual efficiency, but she has a thorough understanding of what I naturally am ... and what I willingly can be. She knows my history as much as her own. Deceased family members ... tarnished relationships ... betrayals and treachery ... everything that I have composed and orchestrated, she has witnessed firsthand. And now she wants me..."

Slater chuckles ominously as he stares at the Vermillion River.

"... To measure and evaluate my worth."

Briefly smirking, Slater picks up a fourth rock, concealing it in his hand as he folds his fingers, forming a fist. And with an angered growl, Slater unfolds his legs and subsequently hurls the rock into the water, creating the biggest splash yet. Outraged by Cera's critical assessment, Slater focuses on the camera again and shares his fury.

"What kind of worth did I show you when we fought at Chasing the Dream, Cera?! Perhaps you've forgotten that historical night, but it is etched into my brain as a moment that will irrevocably linger! I countered nearly every move you made! I gave you the war that you craved and obsessed for! I drove your classic war hammer into your skull, and dropped you with the Shockwave! I beat you in the middle of the ring, and you can't fabricate that evidence! Everyone saw it happen, and they applauded my performance appreciatively! They respected my endeavours, they admired my heroism and courage, and they supported my worthwhile redemption! Key word, worthwhile!"

Slater's eyes cast a look of intensity as he stares at the camera, entranced by the thoughts that have led to this passionate speech.

"But if you need more proof, then go and speak to Frank Finelli, my opponent for Initiative [19] here in Lafayette, Louisiana. Ask him how many times he has defeated me since our careers first crossed paths. Ask him how many times he has destroyed me, turning me into a pathetic shell of a wrestler. Ask him how many times I fought back, agonized and weary, and managed to survive the Executioner's wrath. Truthfully, he'll be ashamed to inform you that he has never gotten my number. He has never outlasted me inside that squared circle, and walked away with the victory imprinted on his resume. That's what he'll be striving for on December 12th ... but if you want me to prove my potential in professional wrestling, then I suppose I'll have to take down Frank Finelli once again."

Slater's internal depression has noticeably controlled him by this point, deploying his suppressed enragement with resurgent strength. The fragments have been duplicated, blending together to formulate a side of Slater that will always exist inside his core. Knowing this, Slater wipes his hands over his face, exhaling heavily as he tries to calm his behaviour.

"Most of you that are watching this are probably bewildered by my attitude right now, and I sincerely apologize for my volatile behaviour. Perhaps I should retain a calm composure in future, transmitting an essence of indifference, demonstrating an aura of professional maturity that blockades my juvenile characteristics from escaping. But if you're in the minority that have logically assessed that my anger and frustration is justifiable, then you know exactly where I'm coming from."

Slater caresses his hand across the soft blades of grass, detecting their coldness ... detecting how similar their elements are metaphorically.

"I'm not going to revert to alcoholism and cigarettes to alleviate my stress ... but there is something that I am going to do. I'm going to repair the damage that has been bestowed. I have been insulted and consequently disrespected ... and that's what the Baddest Bitch wanted to convey. She wanted to get under my skin with her venomous tongue, and low and behold, she got her intended wish. She contaminated my quarantined mentality, and being aware of that fact, she's probably resting with a smirk of success plastered on her face, thinking that she got the best of me ... her and the nefarious Judas Dathan, to be precise."

Shifting his gaze to the river, Slater soaks in the atmosphere and shrugs his shoulders.

"Cera would love for me to be decimated by Frank Finelli here in Lafayette. Judas Dathan would hope for the same result. But I am not going to satisfy their desires by being the Executioner's next victim."

Bowing his head, Slater recounts the recent happenings in ACW, concentrating on one aspect in particular.

"However, it would be foolish of me to overlook Finelli's recent disagreements with Seth Iser, the man that I should have had a match with at Rise Above until external circumstances interfered with our sanctioned rematch. I'm glad that Seth is back. He deserves to belong in this industry, even if we have had our ... incidences, as memorable as they are. He almost put me down at Justice 4, but I somehow managed to slay the Deity of Destruction. His aura of menace cannot be ignored. His achievements in this sport cannot be brushed off. His abilities in this sport cannot be frowned upon, yet Frank Finelli seems to think he can underestimate everything Seth personifies."

Slater looks back at the camera, scarcely humble with his expression.

"I have nothing but respect for Seth, Frank, but the way you're dealing with him, it's like he's a virus that needs to go away. Can he be an asshole? Sure he can be. But so can you. And I think, from my analytical perspective, that you're the biggest asshole in this entire industry today. Maybe you'll take that as a sordid compliment. If you don't, it'll probably be absorbed as an offensive remark. I don't care either way, because I know that whatever I say, it won't change your strategies for our match inside the Cajundome."

With a stern stare, Slater gets closer to the camera, indicating his seriousness as he moves on with this recording video.

"Make no mistake about it ... I respect your abilities and strengths too. You have given me an incredible amount of punishment in all of our matches, the kind that many others have been unable to generate. You could break every bone in my body with ease, but it wouldn't be enough for you. You could shatter my neck with a career-ending Brainbuster or a ferocious decapitation-style clothesline, but you will still want to distribute your brutality without mercy. I know the reason why. It's not because you hate me. It's not because you don't respect me."

Slater gets closer still.

"It's because you simply don't want to lose to me again."

Gradually distancing himself from the camera, Slater folds his legs in again and re-establishes his former posture.

"Your recent failures have driven you into overdrive, and I don't blame you. You've been vilified and alienated from furthering your championship opportunities, and that has made you desperate. You lost the Stairway to Heaven Match at Chasing the Dream for the Warfare Championship against Steve Thomas, and that yearning still burns within your soul, smouldering you from the inside and consuming your quest for dominance. That fire is going to unload at Initiative [19], and I am going to be the one that will be scorched."

Collecting yet another piece of rock from the ground, Slater stares at it a moment silently, keeping it in his hand before he looks at the camera.

"Yet it will not make a difference, because even if I have to continue fighting from the canvas, broken and bleeding profusely, I will not give up from proving my worth."

Slater tosses the rock up into the air and catches it with the same hand.

"Not just as a competitor ... but as a man in general."

Not wanting to hold onto the rock anymore, Slater aims it towards the river like the others and watches it descend into the freezing, liquid depths.

"What kind of man would I be if I forfeited ... if I surrendered after all this time? What kind of man would I personify if I took the coward's way out, took my ball and went home? What kind of honourable, noble man would I be, if I didn't wrestle with unbridled passion and endless heart? I'd become just like the others that couldn't handle the pressure. I'd become like the others that played politics and tried to find an easy, feasible route to success through corruption and manipulation. I'd become just like the people I despise, who spat on the legacy of this sport, who treated it like a joke, and forever hindered its traditional significance."

Placing his hand against his chest, Slater takes a heavy breath before he glances at the camera with a cold glare.

"I will not ... become a joke..."

Slater leans forward again, his determination showing through his transferring intensity.

"I will not ... be spat upon and treated like a pathetic, worthless, pitiful piece of shit any longer."

Reverting back to his chosen position, Slater picks up the largest rocks he can find and piles them into his hands, talking as he does so.

"On December 12th ... the Silver Knight is going to represent what this sport should be about. I'm going to persevere and withstand everything that Frank Finelli will unleash. And at the Christmas Special, I'm going to craft the final chapter against Judas Dathan. And if I do get concussed, lacerated, fractured or hospitalized, I will still venture to Hattiesburg, Mississippi ... and I will still be a valuable part of this industry. Because there is nothing..."

Frowning with blossoming malice, Slater hurls the first rock towards the river.

"Nothing..."

Exposing his gritted teeth, Slater throws the second with stronger force.

"Nothing!"

After roaring the same word again, Slater launches the third as hard as he can towards the disturbed water.

"Nothing!"

One more resonation of this word clarifies Slater's self-imposed intent to continue his career, further symbolizing his distaste at being the target for expulsion as he chucks a bunch of stones towards the river at the same time, seeing them all hit the water at different intervals. Breathing continuously, Slater focuses primarily on the camera and shifts his body, residing on his knees as he stares straight into the lens.

"That is going to keep me away from this sport that I hold dear. And if you try and stop me ... you'll be the ones that will know..."

Slater leans forward one final time.

"... What it's like to feel worthless."

Finalizing his video production, Slater presses his hand against the lens, simultaneously pressing the record button with his finger at the same time to cut the tape, and to leave everybody in suspense for what is going to occur inside in the Cajundome.

The time was ripe for Slater to make a tremendous stand against the oppressed and malevolent.

And he was planning to make it a worthwhile venture that would prove once and for all that he belonged in the business as a loyal competitor ... and as a respectable individual.
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